


Skin

by takenbythewater (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant/Top Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Marking, Protective Dean Winchester, Submissive/Bottom Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-27 01:51:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/takenbythewater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ink and paper are not the only ways to print a story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin

**Author's Note:**

> Written for dnwinchester on tumblr, she requested aftercare specifically involving marking.
> 
> also a heads up, the sexual aspects are more implied than explicit (so really, it's not pwp if that's what you're looking for, I'm sorry! I hope the tags aren't misleading.)

     Skin tells stories, it has messages written across it in curves and lines, places where it failed to mend. The raised imprint of a hand on Dean's shoulder speaks of a battle, not his own. This mark isn't like the scars raked into being by werewolf claws or unfortunate accidents. Any angel would be able to tell you about the salvation of Dean Winchester, the righteous man. They'll tell you about the beating of wings, the roar of it as they waited at the mouth of hell, the young angel who knew they could no longer wait and plunged into the pit, against orders. Some will say this is where they should have known they had a traitor on their hands, a deserter, but some will grow wide-eyed as they speak of their brother. How he cut down demons, hundreds of them, maybe thousands, so that they parted at the sight of his sword. “Like Moses,” they'll say, “and the red sea.” as they remember it now, the first time since the beginning that they had tasted for themselves, divine wrath.

    One, and only this one angel, will tell you how frightening it was. For the first time, enacting divine wrath. How terrifying it had been, to hold the broken savior in his hands and weave him back together. To save the righteous man who could save them all.

     Skin tells stories, some aren't as grand as others, this is true, but just as important.

 

     Cas lets out a low hiss of pain as the cloth brushes over a particularly sensitive spot, one of the few places where the skin had broken. Dean presses his lips to the top of his head, the dark hair ruffled and wet and withdraws the washcloth from between his shoulder blades. The angel leans back against Dean's chest, the ripple of the water and the warmth of the man soothe him, more than he has words for. Knowing the majority of words in existence, this means a lot.

     “You should tell me to knock it off if I hurt you.” Dean manages to sound forlorn, as tired and fucked-out as he is. Cas tips his head back to look up at him, wrinkling his nose and squinting in that way of his.

      "I should remind you that it's physically impossible for you to do so.” His voice is tired and roughened, an echo of what was only minutes ago. Loud was a bit of an understatement. Legs wrapped around Dean's waist, back against the wall and hands clasped on the broad shoulders that mean home to him. Grip growing tighter with each upward thrust inside of him, each tug at his skin where Dean was sure to leave his mark. He loved this, the overwhelming mix of sensation. To be filled and claimed and so loved. Anyone, he thinks, would scream in his position.

   “ 'Cause you're an angel?” he huffs a laugh against Cas' neck, he's told him a thousand times by now, whenever he asks if he's okay, if he wants to slow down. He prepares him well, stretches him open slow, takes care of him as he should. Angel or not, that's just how it's gonna be. Cas closes his eyes and hums contentedly.

      "No,” he mumbles a bit drowsily into Dean's chest “ Because you're you.”

     And what do you say to that? It settles heavy somewhere inside, the full weight of the trust that Cas has in him. Words always end up failing him, and they certainly won't be enough now.

     The water has gone a bit colder, and Cas tenses, pushing back into Dean, seeking the warmth of his skin. He hates being cold, and it's one of those things that Dean is afraid to really ask about. He remembers it. Almost a year after they met, that was when Cas had been hauled off back to some dark corner of heaven. He'd told him, resting in his arms after a hunt in North Dakota and before Dean had taken him for the first time, before their first desperate kiss at what would've been the end of the world. Heaven's persuasion shouldn't have surprised him the way it did.

_“They held my grace in their hands,” his voice doesn't break, not yet “ and then they ripped it apart.” He goes quiet, speaking in barely a whisper. If it had been anyone else, would've stopped there, most likely he would've disappeared. He tells Dean, finally. He hadn't intended to speak these things aloud._

_They had scribed his sins into the very fabric of him, written so all would know the error of his ways. They tore his grace into shattered bits of light and heat, not once, but again, again, again. He hadn't given them what they wanted, not until he was begging. He would obey, he would obey, he would obey._

_Cas had felt cold for the longest time after that._

_He hadn't even realized that he was crying, not until Dean had gently cupped his face in those strong hands of his, hands that pulled people from hell, in their own right._

_“ Just give me names, Cas,” his voice is the one that cracks now, “ just say the names and I'll personally send 'em to hell.” Cas' eyes are going dark again, and he won't look at him. Dean presses his thumb into Cas' cheekbone, catching the slow falling tear he never would've believe that his angel could shed. “ That's where they belong, understand?” He won't stop shaking. “ Them, not you, never you.”_

    Dean helps Cas step over the rim of the tub. He moves slowly, tenderly, until he finds himself in the embrace of the righteous man who saved him. This dull ache means that he'll be limping tomorrow.

     “I'll help you to bed, Sweetheart.” Dean yawns, fitting a towel around Cas' shoulders, careful not to apply much pressure. Cas makes an attempt to dry his hair, though it doesn't do much other than make it stick up at all angles. Then again, that's pretty much all his hair is capable of doing.

   He catches the look in Dean's eyes and leans forward with half a smile, straightening himself up to gently press his lips against Dean's own.

    He lifts Cas into his arms, one under his knees and one at his back. As is custom.

     When he lays his angel down on the bed they share, it becomes an altar. Cas tilts his chin up to bare the pale column of his throat, patterned with little marks of pink and red and purple, one or two placed about his ribs, more than that dotting the white plain of his stomach. The mark of strong hands cradling his sharp hips. His body has become a canvas, and Dean, an artist. And damn if he isn't proud of his work.

    The first time it happened Dean gushed an apology, even though he knew that Cas could heal the little bruise sucked into his neck, knew that it was nothing to an angel. He assumed that Cas had done so. Until he'd caught sight of it standing bold and dark on his skin, a visible brand like the one burnt into Dean's shoulder. It was when he saw Cas run two careful fingers over this brand that Dean knew he was in trouble of the best kind.

      "My baby,” he whispers, breath hot against Cas' neck. He presses his lips, soft and cleansing to the first bruise upon his skin, “ you're so good for me.” He braces his arms on either side of Cas' body, ready to work his way down. Each kiss a salve for the wound he's made, loving as well as claiming. Cas trembles, heavy-lidded eyes fluttering as Dean presses his lips to the rise of his collarbone.“ So beautiful.”

     His angel draws in a shuddering breath when he mouths at the map across his stomach, nips at the sharp jut of his hips, painted pink with the long lines of Dean's fingers and the broad shape of his palms. His task is done, and Cas thanks him with a gentle kiss, too tired, too safe and comfortable to go any further.

     He slips under the sheets, Cas immediately curling closer to him, head pillowed on his chest. He wraps an arm around his shoulders, stroking up and down his back.

    Cas opens his eyes, groggily peering up at Dean.

     “ Goodnight, Dean.” he mutters, nuzzling closer and tangling their feet together.

      “ Goodnight to you, too, bird.”

     That angel, who had sewed bits of his grace into the flesh and bone of the Micheal sword, could not have possibly anticipated that in turn, he would be held in the hand's of the righteous man, and pieced back together himself.

     He decides that it's a pleasant surprise.

 


End file.
